sinner, sinner (on your knees)
by Muffintine
Summary: [complete] [sterek] Stiles swallows. "Father, I," he clears his throat, bites down on his tongue, and squints his eyes. "I've sinned." Father Derek's face remains unimpressed. "Is that so," he says, though it sounds more taunting than understanding. "You seek absolution?"


**trigger warnings: underage; internalized homophobia**

**...**

God, Stiles decides, _must_ hate him.

There's no other explanation for why the new priest is so unfairly attractive. Father Derek looks mouthwateringly sinful in his plain white alb, cincture of the same color wrapped tightly around his toned waist, tied accordingly to the left. A simple, royal purple sash is draped around his neck, hanging low over both sides, white cross stitched perfectly into each end. He's only been with the church for a month, but he's polite enough, if somewhat stiff.

When he addresses the congregation during mass, his face is carefully neutral. However, his beautiful back is on full display for the three Altar boys – and girl – sitting behind him. By the way Stiles catches Erica sneaking glances, he isn't the only one appreciating the board expanse of Father Derek's back. It's all he can do to look away; to focus on Matt Daehler's ugly wart in the front row because _wow_, popping a boner during mass would be _so_ beyond inappropriate.

And he – he knows his, uh, inclinations aren't _normal_. An _abomination_ Gerard Argent is fond of sneering every second Sunday of the month when the congregation enjoys donuts in the gym. It worries him, the way Gerard looks him right in the eye and seems to just _know_.

Stiles prays every night for God to forgive him for thinking men are just as beautiful as women. He anguishes every time he wraps his hand around his hard, dripping cock and fucks up into his fingers until he's spilling sticky seed onto his hands — lean, toned, male bodies featuring heavily in his mind's eye. He hates himself as he wonders what it'd be like to kiss a man, to feel the brush of stubble against his lips. To be pressed down, fucked into by –

Stiles goes pink in the face, casting his eyes downward as he chastises himself for having such impure thoughts during _mass_, for crying out loud.

Still, he can't help the way Father Derek's voice just – just gets to him, okay? It's not deep like Stiles had anticipated it would be and, man, the guy has bunny teeth – bunny teeth! – how is he _not_ supposed to find that endearing and simultaneously hot?

God forgive him, he _wants_.

His hands are clammy as the mass nears the end and he can't – he can't stop _thinking_ about how large Derek's hands are, how beautiful his bright, tri-colored eyes are, or how damn good his ass had looked that one time he'd glanced Father Derek in a soft grey button down and form fitting jeans. He closes his eyes, swallows, and tries to will away thoughts of pressing his fingers past the rim of Father Derek's —

"Stiles," Erica hisses, jerking her head towards Father Derek who's staring at him with an unreadable expression.

Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin before he hastily rings the bell, signaling the beginning of consecration. He's careful to pay attention, ringing the bell once more when Father Derek holds the host up, blessings falling from his lips like some sort of hard-on inducing spell. Stiles hates himself in that moment, hates his… his disgusting _urges_.

He lets himself fall into his usual pattern then, shoving any thoughts from his mind. Before he knows it, it's time to receive communion and he knows – _he knows_ – he shouldn't receive the host with a heavy heart, with the sinful thoughts that have been plaguing him throughout the entirety of mass. And yet, when Derek stops before him and utters a quiet, "The Body of Christ," he can't help but open his mouth and return the proper, "Amen."

Stiles _knows_ he should cup his hands, that he should hold them out and receive the Body of Christ in a way he won't further embarrass himself in the eyes of God. However, the sick part of him looks up at Father Derek from beneath his lashes and opens his mouth wider to receive the circular representation of his Lord and Savior.

Father Derek presses the host flat on his tongue and, as his fingers linger, Stiles closes his mouth around them, humming obscenely before he realizes what the _hell_ he's doing. He steps back, startled, eyes wide as they dart to meet Father Derek's. Father Derek seems calm; too calm, though something dark flashes briefly across his eyes as he steps to the side, saying evenly to Erica, "The Body of Christ."

The rest of mass passes in a panicked blur; and, by the end of it, Stiles only really comes up with one solution to the constant, lustful thoughts polluting his mind: _confession_.

* * *

He tells his father that he has sins to confess and his father – the town's Sheriff and faithful parishioner – claps him on the shoulder, nodding understandingly. "That's alright, son," he'd said, quiet smile crinkling the tired corners of his eyes. "I'm proud of you."

And that's how he finds himself in the empty church, twitchy and nervous. He locates Father Derek easily enough, dressed in the starch stiff black cassock, complete with the standard white clerical collar. He's standing at the altar, arms crossed and face neutral as he gazes at the finely crafted cross mounted on the north facing wall. He looks oddly troubled. Stiles merely stands there, a bundle of nervous energy as he stares a hole into the back of Father Derek's head.

"If you've something to ask," comes the rich cadence of Father Derek's voice, "Don't stay your tongue." He turns, meets Stiles' gaze, and cocks one perfect eyebrow as if to say hurry up, kid. Which, _rude_.

Stiles swallows. "Father, I," he clears his throat, bites down on his tongue, and squints his eyes. "I've sinned."

Father Derek's face remains unimpressed. "Is that so," he says, though it sounds more taunting than understanding. "You seek absolution?"

Stiles nods, licking his lips absently.

Father Derek allows his gaze to linger on Stiles for a moment longer before he inclines his head towards the confessional booths at the back of the church. He starts towards them with a slow, unhurried gait. Stiles trails after him, dread pooling in his gut. The whole reason he's even here is _because_ he's been having improper thoughts about Father Derek's… physique. And, really, it's worrying that he can't seem to figure out if the fact that he's about to confess these thoughts to the guy he's been fantasizing is terrifying or arousing. No, _shit_. Not arousing. That sort of thinking needs to stop _right now_.

He watches as Father Derek steps into his side of the confessional before swallowing his pride and doing the same. He kneels down, clasping his hands together as he was taught to. He waits a moment before he clears his throat, shifting awkwardly.

Father Derek's voice comes soothingly from the other side of a black, circular screen, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Spirit."

Stiles lifts his hand deftly, familiarly, to make the sign of the cross. His heartbeat ratchets up in tempo as he opens his mouth to say, "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned." He swallows thickly, keeping his eyes cast downward. "It's been two months since my last confession," he continues, still on script. "My sins are… I mean, I've … I've been having," he hesitates, "_impure_ thoughts about, um, about men." Stiles bites down on his tongue, the shame spreading across his cheeks in the form of a burning blush.

Father Derek remains quiet, though his silence is thick and feels horribly like judgment. Then, "What sort of thoughts?" Father Derek asks, voice level and – curious? No, no. Stiles is – he's _projecting_.

"Uh, sexual thoughts," he says bluntly, crinkling his brow. "I've thought about another man touching me when I," he pauses, mouth dry. "When I touch myself." God, he's _so_ beyond mortified.

There's the sound of Father Derek shifting on the other side of the confessional. "I see," he replies, sounding somehow _wrong_. "And who do you think about when you touch yourself, Stiles?"

The question is wildly inappropriate and Stiles knows he isn't obligated to answer it. He shouldn't answer it, in fact. He should just murmur some asshole at his school's name – maybe Jackson – and be done with it. However, his mouth feels like cotton and Derek's voice is _messing_ him, muddling his mind; hollowing him out just to fill him with sordid desire.

"You," he answers honestly, voice small.

A heady, heavy moment passes. "Are you truly sorry?" Father Derek inquires, tone low, rough and, _fuck_, **inviting**.

Stiles wants to say yes, he wants to do right by his God, but the word _yes_ gets stuck in his throat. He's _not_ sorry he wonders what Father Derek's ass would feel like squeezing tightly around his cock as he eases into him. He's _not_ sorry he fantasizes about what it'd feel like to be the one being fucked into, the one being _sodomized_. "No," he breathes, already at half-mast. "No, I'm not—" he bites off the last syllable, with a soft, needy moan and oh God, he's _so_ screwed.

Suddenly there's the sound of a door being opened and Stiles is panicking because _oh crap_, did he piss Father Derek off? Aren't priests supposed to be peace loving—

That thought never finishes itself as the door to Stiles confessional is abruptly wrenched open. Stiles doesn't even get the chance to turn towards the door before he's being yanked to his feet and slammed up against the wall. Father Derek has him caged in, a constipated look to the furrow of his brows. His eyes are dark as they stare down at Stiles, making the pit of his stomach twist and his cock hardens to obscene stiffness.

He gapes as Derek says nothing, merely looks down between the two of them with a smirk. "Yes," he rumbles, voice absolutely _filthy_, "I can see how very not sorry you are." And, just like that, Father Derek's hand slides down to cup Stiles' hard dick through his pants. The touch is forceful – not at all gentle. Stiles' breath hitches as his hips stutter forward and his mouth falls open in disbelief. "Tell me, Stiles," Derek drawls, expression oddly caged and pinched. "Do you know the Act of Contrition?" As he asks, he unbuttons Stiles' jeans with precision, pulls the zipper down, and locks eyes with Stiles as his cock slips free. His fingers ghost up the length of it, teasing.

"I –" Stiles tries, swallows, and then continues, "Yes, Father. I do."

Father Derek smirks. "Good," he murmurs as he sinks to his knees, leaning in close enough that his hot breath skates down the length of Stiles' cock. Stiles shudders at the feeling, helpless as he glances down at Father Derek, unsure of what is even _going on_. "Recite it for me," he says, words sharp and commanding. Stiles is having trouble concentrating because _holy shit_ Father Derek's leaning forward, mouth slack as he hovers just over the head of Stiles' cock. Father Derek stops, glances up at Stiles as if he's waiting for something, and – oh, _oh_.

"O my God," he starts shakily, gasping when Derek wraps his lips fully around Stiles' dick, tongue swiping over the sensitive patch of skin as if he just _knows_. "I am – I am heartily sorry for," he babbles, losing his train of thought as Derek pulls off to lick a wet, hot strip all the way down to his balls and back up again. "For, uh, for having off-offended you, oh God, oh _God_," he whimpers, hips stuttering as he watches his dick disappear once more past Derek's spit slick lips.

Without really thinking about it, his hands drop to twist in Father Derek's surprisingly soft hair, grip desperate. He lets out two soft moans as he feels his cock hit the back of Father Derek's throat and, "D-Derek," he chokes out pathetically the moment Father Derek's throat opens up for him and swallows him down. His eyes practically roll into the back of his head as Father Derek gags obscenely, pulling completely off his dick with a wet pop.

Father Derek pauses to look up at Stiles with a reproachful look, lips red and used. "Finish the prayer, Stiles," he commands, words hoarse as they leave his debauched mouth.

"Okay," Stiles responds weakly. "Okay. I, uh, and I detest all my sins because"—Father Derek's mouth is back on Stiles' dick in a flash, tongue digging harshly into the slit—"of your just punish-punishment, but most of all because they offend you, my God—_oh my God, Father_—" Stiles breaks off, tightening his fingers in Father Derek's hair as he tries not to fuck up into his warm mouth. "Who are all g-good and, _ngg_, deserving of, deserving of my love," he rasps, feeling the pressure of his orgasm building. "I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to s-sin no more and to, ah, _ah_, avoid"—Father Derek presses Stiles' cock all the way inside his mouth once more, hallowing out his cheeks as he sucks harder, tongue pressed tightly against the main vein of Stiles' cock—"the near occasions of _sin_."

Stile lets out a truly impressive cry as his hips buck forward, come spilling down Derek's throat as he rides out the _best_ orgasm of his _life_. His brain goes numb, blank as he stares unseeingly down at Father Derek, smiling dozily.

Father Derek stands then, wiping the excess of Stiles' come from his mouth with surprising nonchalance. He levels a conspiratorial gaze on Stiles. "Your sins are forgiven," he says without inflection, opening the confessional door. "You may go in peace."

And just like that, he's gone.

As Stiles hastily zips up his jeans, he makes a silent vow to confess his sins more often.

**R&R? Follow me on tumblr: dyobrienz.**


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